


In These Shoes? (A Lady Grey One-shot)

by PlantsAreNeat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Not Shoes In _That_ Way, Drag Queens, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Shoes, some smex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 21:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11929269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantsAreNeat/pseuds/PlantsAreNeat
Summary: Set in Lymphadei's "Looking Glass Cabaret" universe.Sherlock and John have been together for about nine months, and for the first time, have been apart for longer than a single night. Sherlock, back from a case outside London that went long, wants to see (and have) John as soon as possible but must wait until after the new acts open at the cabaret.





	In These Shoes? (A Lady Grey One-shot)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Looking Glass Cabaret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6426481) by [Lymphadei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei). 



> This is a follow-on to Lymphadei's [Looking Glass Cabaret](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6426481) \- a fic that I love with the fire of a thousand suns - written with their kind permission. 
> 
> I also love the song [In These Shoes?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGsfFOvjVyQ) by Kirsty MacColl, and had been trying to find a way to write a fic that incorporated it, (Omegaverse PWP? Lestrade moonlights as paid escort? Mrs. Hudson flashback?) when I had a brainstorm that it needed to be a performance by Lady Grey. So, here's my best shot at that, though my hot pr0n skills pale in comparison to the original author - have some sappy luurve instead. :)
> 
> Some notes about shoes and songs to be found at the end, in case you're wondering. Definitely give the title song a listen, and since the song is short assume the wizards at the Looking Glass are able to edit it into long enough loops to allow for the staging I describe. 
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked - I'm American (as is my spelling), so comments and corrections gladly accepted, and likely obsessively answered. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are creations of Arthur Conan Doyle; their updated counterparts belong to Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the BBC. I receive only writing practice (and hopefully kudos) for this effort.

Sherlock woke slowly, languidly rising out of slumber into the late afternoon sunlight leaking past the drawn curtains in his bedroom. _His_ bedroom. _His_ bed. It had been much too long since he last slept here.

He stretched his long arms above his head, pressing against the headboard with his fingers and pointing his toes, hearing his joints crack in percussive snaps and clicks as he arched his whole body against the mattress. His sheets were warm and smooth against his skin, so much better than the harsh hotel linens he’d been collapsing onto for the last two and a half weeks. He rolled onto his side, over the pillow next to his own. The combination of fragrances - tropical shampoo, women’s perfume, tea, and spicy male sweat - that translated to _John_ reached his nose, but only faintly and the pillowcase was cool. John had not slept here since he had been away, not even last night (well, this morning) when his lover had met Sherlock’s red-eye flight at the airport and snogged him utterly senseless in the taxi all the way from Heathrow to Baker Street. Sherlock was practically drunk with case-related fatigue and John’s presence when he had stumbled into his flat with John under his arm - or John supporting him by pulling his arm over sturdy shoulders, perhaps - and staggered into his bedroom. He remembered the tender look in John’s eyes, remembered sure fingers unbuttoning, unzipping, freeing him from his stale clothes, remembered John lowering him to the bed and a warm weight settling against him, and...

“And then I woke up,” he grumbled, wincing at the rusty, gravelly rasp of his voice. He was thirsty, and he needed the loo. Urgently.

Rolling from the bed, he strode to the toilet. As he did his business and brushed his teeth, he listened through the open door for sounds in the rest of the flat. It was quiet, but if John were reading, seated in the armchair that Sherlock had started thinking of as belonging to his lover, he would not make much noise. Sherlock could not imagine that John would not want to see him as soon as he was awake; they had been apart for what felt like forever! Before this trip, they had not spent more than a single night apart, either working together through the night on Sherlock’s cases or crashing into bed at one or the other of their flats.

That blasted case, which was supposed to take four days and dragged on for _two and a half bloody weeks._ Yes, alright, it was actually a 7 when he left and bumped up to a solid 8 or even a 9 when the third body came to light, and the killer’s methods both of murdering his victims and hiding his traces afterwards were unique and ingenious. Still, Sherlock’s intellectual enjoyment of the challenge was dampened by the absence of John. He kept noticing the empty space by his side on the crime scene; no deep, blue eyes across the table, hanging on his recounting of the chase; no dazzling, sexy entertainer blazing in the bright lights of a stage; no compact, muscular body tucked up against him, sleepy and sated, in his bed at night. No amount of texting (and sexting) or video chats could replace the real thing. Somehow, in the nine short months they had been together, John Watson had become necessary to Sherlock Holmes. A turn-up for the books, some might say, but Sherlock knew better; John was extraordinary and endlessly alluring, a one-man study in the contradictions of human nature.

Sherlock strode from the bathroom into the sitting room, which was unexpectedly empty. He looked in the kitchen; also empty. Where was John? He should have been waiting, putting down his tea to jump up and follow Sherlock promptly back to his bedroom. Sherlock stood there, unaccountably disappointed and more than a little disgruntled, until the chill in the air reminded him he was entirely starkers. With a huff, he stalked back to the bedroom to dress.

As he was tucking in the tails of his sinfully tight, light blue dress shirt, his mobile pinged from the nightstand. He lunged for it - it was John’s special text alert. The sound, a squawky trumpet sting, was pulled from a song that had been playing outside the window the first time John had given himself to Sherlock as the person beneath the paint and glitter of Lady Grey; shedding the layers of emotional protection his larger-than-life alter ego afforded him, in order to truly show Sherlock the man he was. Sherlock had been so humbled, so astonished by John’s courage and strength in that moment; it was the night he realized there would be no other person in the world for him after John Watson. He had tracked down the song and made the text alert and a ringtone the next afternoon.

 _Good morning, sleepyhead. - JW_ the text read. Sherlock snorted. The clock at the top of the screen read 4:33 PM.

**Good afternoon, John. - SH**

**I can’t help but notice you are not in my bed, nor anywhere in my flat. This is an intolerable state of affairs. - SH**

_I know. It’s driving me round the twist, too. Irene has put me on house arrest. Well, club arrest, I guess. She won’t let me leave until after my set tonight; I close the first act. - JW_

**Unacceptable. I will come to you, then. - SH**

There was a delay before the next text came through; Sherlock had just finished tying his shoes and was headed for the door when his phone trumpeted again. He pulled it from his pocket.

_I’m sorry, John can’t come to the phone right now. He is very busy getting ready for work. I have his phone until show time, and the bouncers have instructions to keep you out of backstage until AFTER the show. There will be no canoodling with my headliner until the curtain falls, Mr. Holmes. Don’t make me hurt you. I’d enjoy it. - Irene_

**Put John back on, Irene. - SH**

**John. - SH**

**John. - SH**

**JOHN. - SH**

**JOHN! - SH**

With a snarl, Sherlock hurled his phone into the seat of his leather chair and petulantly threw himself down on the sofa to sulk. _Bloody obstinate Irene,_ he thought, with her controlling perfectionism for every aspect of Looking Glass Cabaret. She kept her unlikely crew of drag queens, dancers, acrobats and vaudevillians in line with a sharp tongue and laser glares, and the club had been gaining popularity and notoriety since its opening nine months ago. John was a celebrated draw as his wickedly charming Lady Grey, and Sherlock knew his lover basked in the approbation of the fans. Sherlock may be selfish and somewhat socially tone-deaf, but even he would not be so uncouth as to cause a scene on a show night. As much as he would hate it, he would have to wait. He groaned out loud.

His phone trumpeted from the depths of the chair where he had thrown it, and he rolled off the sofa to snag it again. Probably Irene rubbing it in, but he couldn’t help the sliver of hope that John had relented and was arranging to see him before the show began. His fingers tingled as he opened the text.

_Darling, you know I would sneak you in and have you over my vanity until you forgot everything but my name if it were only up to me. However, our Fearless Leader has spoken, and she has _plans_ for tonight. We mere mortals must bend to her will, I’m afraid. Curtain at 8 PM, your ticket will be waiting at the box office._

_Life is a cabaret, my love._

_Come to the cabaret._

_\-- Lady Grey_  

Sherlock chuckled darkly as he read the text, feeling a familiar coiling of heat in his belly at the thought of the many times he had sneaked into John’s dressing room to peel his lover out of wig, gown and garters and lose himself in the pleasure of John’s body. Sherlock, in no way modest, knew he was a skilled and creative lover, and with John, who was himself incredibly talented both on and offstage, their lovemaking was phenomenal. He craved it - craved John - always; today he felt that hunger with the added keenness of their weeks of separation.  

So Irene had plans for the night, hmm? Well, a few plans were forming in Sherlock’s mind too, once he had John in his arms again. He checked the clock on his phone - 5:04PM. Only a few hours until curtain; he would need to shower and change. He smiled as he headed back to his bedroom.   

~~oOo~~

The Looking Glass Cabaret was tastefully garish as always, festooned with velvet draperies and bright chandeliers. Bow-tied wait staff passed out champagne in cut glass flutes, and well-dressed patrons of all stripes laughed and flirted. People waiting in line at the door eyed him appreciatively or enviously as he strode up to the box office and gave his name. The attendant gave him a cheerful wink and a frank, admiring once-over as she handed him his ticket; John was well-liked by everyone associated with the cabaret, and they all knew him on sight as John’s partner. It meant they counted him almost as one of their own, which made him feel smug and embarrassed in equal measure.

For tonight’s outing, he had redressed in some of his finest: a deep sapphire silk shirt open at the throat to the third button, and a smooth, black suit, tailored to cling to his form and emphasize his long lean neck and rounded rear, arguably his best features. John loved him in this outfit; he had stuttered and licked his lips obsessively all night the first time Sherlock had worn it for him. In keeping with the plan, Sherlock had styled his hair in a sleek swept-back shape that slicked his curls into lustrous waves close to his head. He had even dipped into John’s own bag of tricks, carefully applying sooty eyeliner and shimmering eye shadow to his lids in a color that matched the shirt and caused his kaleidoscopic irises to flash blue one moment, green the next. Sherlock was determined that John should suffer some of the torture that today’s waiting had inflicted on him, and seeing him in the audience looking like some kind of David Bowie wannabe would drive his lover a little bit mental. He couldn’t wait to see John’s face.

As he settled at a table near the stage, being sure to sit so that he could be seen from the wings as well as from the footlights, Sherlock looked at the envelope that his ticket had come in. His name was written in John’s pointy scrawl, with a dark maroon lipstick kiss next to it - courtesy of Lady Grey, no doubt. At times it seemed to Sherlock that he had two lovers at once; when John put on the mantle of his glittering drag queen persona, he was almost a different person from his more reserved usual self. Lady Grey filled up a room as soon as she walked in, captivating all eyes effortlessly and charming everyone she interacted with. On stage, the Lady dominated any skit in which she participated with her charisma and presence. She was exquisite, and Sherlock was thoroughly wrapped around her finger from the moment he first saw her, or rather _half_ of her, on stage for the opening night of the cabaret. The other half was revealed when she turned her head and the unpainted face of John Watson asked the audience to consider if anything they saw could really be what it seemed. That weathered face, with its lines and flaws and expressive character, had captivated Sherlock as firmly as the porcelain perfection of the Lady. Having John as his lover meant that at times he was paying court to Lady Grey and all her flash and glamour, while other times he was enjoying boyish charm and domestic comforts with John, or running after criminals with Captain Watson. He was never bored, having John in his life.

His thoughts were interrupted by a fresh-faced waitress delivering a carafe of water, a plate and a drink to his table. He was about to protest that he had not ordered anything when she winked and handed him another envelope. “Enjoy your evening, Mister Holmes,” she chirped, and disappeared back into the crowd.

Sherlock looked at the envelope, again stamped with the deep maroon kiss mark. Inside was a sheet of paper, lightly scented with Lady Grey’s signature perfume, which John had had specially blended for his alter ego. He closed his eyes for a moment to savor it, then opened the note. Even his handwriting seemed more rounded, feminine, when John was Lady Grey.

_Be sure to eat, darling. You’ll need your strength._

The drink that had been delivered turned out to be a double of the club’s best scotch, so he took a healthy sip and concentrated on the burn of the alcohol as it went down. He saw that the sandwich that accompanied it was his favorite grilled chicken with pesto mayonnaise from the deli up the street, not something from the cabaret’s menu. There was a single square of flat dark chocolate on the plate, from the French chocolatier around the corner from John’s flat. John must have had the meal brought, just for him.

Dear god, how he adored John! The heat that had been banked below his belt stirred and flared for a moment as he imagined John’s expression planning these little touches, the slightly naughty, mischievous smirk on his pink lips as he gave instructions to the cabaret staff. Oh, the things he wanted to do to those lips, to all of John... Sherlock realized he was at risk of becoming indecent, and thought unsexy thoughts for a moment to collect himself.

He tucked into his sandwich while the low-level buzz of the crowd grew in volume and the lights flashed on and off a few times to indicate the show was about to start. People who had lingered in the foyer hurried to their seats and waiters scurried to bring fresh drinks to the newcomers. The overhead lights dimmed and the stage lights came up on the rising red velvet curtain; a jazzy number with a brassy horn section played over the sound system, white spotlights picking out three sparkling figures in slinky gowns and opera gloves of emerald green, surrounded by a shadowed group of couples swing dancing in front of them as they lip-synced to the vocals of the track. Sherlock’s attention swept over the singers: a brunette, a platinum blonde, and a scarlet redhead, each striking in their own way. Drag queens all; in fact the redhead was none other than Miss Vicky - a particular friend of John’s and another headliner for the cabaret. But the blonde and the brunette were not Lady Grey, nor anyone he knew, and while they were very good, they did not hold his interest for long. After a moment, he felt his attention wander as the trio vamped on the three-part harmony of the opening of the song, and Irene, dressed as a ringmaster with a silk top hat on her head and slashed black satin trousers under her sequined red frock coat, introduced the show with flourishes of the short buggy whip in her hand.

“Welcome, Friends, to the Looking Glass Cabaret!” She called, her body mic amplifying her voice to the back of the room. “Tonight we encourage you to celebrate along with us, on this, the occasion of our UnBirthday! Come down the rabbit hole, my cats and kittens, and see what awaits you in this house of naughty nonsense and scandalous whimsy!” She cracked the whip in her hand, and the lights came up on the dancing couples, who were revealed to be dressed in costumes of cats, rabbits, wolves, birds and other animals - if those animals had also been human-shaped BDSM kinksters. Their masks and makeup were excellent: feathered or furred and lifelike, with tails or claws in the right places and the metal on their zippered leather-esque outfits gleaming in the brightened lights. Sherlock realized with some surprise that the members of each dancing couple were bound together; some with handcuffs, some with chains connecting collars or belts, a few with elaborate rope-work around their forearms or waists, binding them tightly to one another. It added a somewhat disturbing note to the lighthearted dance party.

Suddenly, Sherlock recognized John beneath a fox costume, dancing toward the back of the pack; though John was in no way the focus of this piece, Sherlock could not look away. John moved with feral grace as he danced with a lissome white dove, to whom he was connected by a long chain hung from the collar around his neck to its twin around hers. They each wore clinging leather, sleeveless tops: she with full-length leggings that zipped down the sides, he in tight booty shorts with the same side zippers, but even more tantalizing - a zipper from stem to stern along the crotch that left little to the imagination. Sherlock sat up in his seat, riveted by this vision of his lover in leather and fur, complete with red-furred fox tail swinging behind. It was a very good look on John, highlighting the powerful, athletic body he usually camouflaged with lovely gowns and body-shaping garments. Like all the couples on stage, the dance he and the dove were performing was both energetic and erotic; sweeping hands up and down each others’ bodies as they swayed and spun and slotted their bodies together. A voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind growled _mine_ after a particularly lascivious dipping maneuver, and he leaned forward to get a better view of the fox and the dove.

Perhaps John could feel it, because on his next turn, he obviously spotted Sherlock in the audience. John’s eyes traveled down his figure, then back up again, and as they locked stares, Sherlock saw John’s chest heave as he gasped, and his partner wobbled as John flubbed a step. The fox shook his head minutely, a sort of ‘get it together’ motion, and then clearly avoided looking at Sherlock again for the rest of the dance routine. Sherlock leaned back with a smirk of his own. The Bowie wannabe look was clearly a success; he couldn’t remember a time he had _ever_ seen John miss a step in a performance.

Leaning back had the added benefit of making a bit of room in his trousers; John in his skintight fox outfit was... very stimulating indeed. John maneuvered his dance partner in a pair of swings to either side of his hips, then dipped her deeply to one side, resting her on his bent leg as he dropped into a lunge and seemed to stroke her from neck to knees. Sherlock knew John was a professional and a gentleman, so he would not be feeling up a cast member in front of an audience, but it was quite a convincing facsimile.

Sherlock glazed over a bit at that; while perhaps not up to the cabaret’s standards, he himself loved to dance and was no slouch on the floor. He and John had danced together at cabaret parties and even gone out dancing a time or two. Could he convince John to dance this routine with him sometime? He knew his lover was strong enough to dip him with ease, and was used to working with a taller partner. Yes - it would be glorious, and John would not have to be a gentleman with _him_ , oh, no. Sherlock could almost feel John’s hands sweeping down his flanks as he laid against a sturdy thigh, dizzy from the spins and John’s proximity. He took a gulp of his scotch and smiled as John’s eyes blatantly followed the lift and drop of his Adam’s apple. John winked from behind the mask and it seemed to smile wickedly.   

The music changed as the stage cleared; a new crop of dancers came out in top hats and tails, but again, with a decidedly leathery, zippery bondage-gear feel to it. Some of the top hats had attached gimp masks, even, and the usual canes for dancing this kind of routine were swapped for riding crops or cat o'nine tails. The lead was a slim androgynous figure with a cane that glowed like a lightsaber as they lip-synced to the buttery tenor on the track. John was not part of this piece, so Sherlock devoted a portion of his attention to storing John’s fox outfit and dance routine in the wing of his Mind Palace devoted to his lover. It was filled almost to overflowing with vignettes of John; he would need to renovate in there (again) soon.

Sherlock snapped back to alertness as the song changed once more. A curtain toward the back of the stage parted and a platform rolled forward, stage-dressed to look like an upscale restaurant. The tune rolling from the speakers had a Latin beat and a crisp horn line; he felt his toes involuntarily start to tap along as the line repeated in a vamp until the background players were in place, dressed as waiters and patrons, still with the BDSM flair of tight black clothes, subtle collars and locking jewelry. As Sherlock was registering the scene, the platform began to turn, the wall in the center of it hiding the scenery for a minute and then rotating back into place. His breath caught - Lady Grey was seated at the table on the platform, as if waiting for a companion to join her. She was dressed as conservatively as he had ever seen her: golden blond wig pulled into an elegant chignon high on her head, clad in a crisp business suit jacket and straight skirt with a high slit up each side. The fabric of the outfit had a silvery shimmer to it and the slit revealed a scarlet garter belt, sequins on the suspenders glittering in the lights; it was clipped to sheer black silk stockings. The combination of smooth silk and flashes of red up high made the Lady’s legs look miles long as she demurely crossed them at the knee, bouncing a foot clad in a slim mary jane style shoe decorated with a pattern that reminded Sherlock of the wallpaper in his sitting room. He was mesmerized by the bobbing appendage and the glimpses of lingerie it afforded him from his seat by the footlights.

Lady Grey was incomparable, as ever. She looked out into the crowd with a sure confidence then pursed lips painted full (ah, the maroon lipstick!) as she eyed the male dancer approaching her wearing a lovely blue suit. Westwood, maybe? Sherlock couldn’t be sure. He had dark hair and pale skin, and Sherlock was surprised to see he was the same height, or possibly even shorter than John. Sherlock realized this must be deliberate; in her platform heels, Lady Grey would stand a good five inches taller than the fellow. The dancer arrived at the table and grabbed a tumbler from it, pretending to throw back a drink in one go; then he strode forward and took Lady Grey’s hand to raise her from her seat as she began her performance.

 _“I once met a man with a sense of adventure,”_   Lady Grey mouthed, addressing the audience as though telling them a naughty secret, while she was escorted to center stage. _“He was dressed to thrill wherever he went...”_ The fellow swept his lapels as though brushing off dust at “thrill,” and Grey eyed him appreciatively, blatantly, top to toe, and shook a slit-almost-all-the-way-up hip at him. Sherlock caught himself frowning and schooled his features. Grey was gorgeous like this, fearless and imperious in her power to command every eye in the house. He wanted her. Sherlock mentally told certain of his parts to settle down.

The fellow cracked a boyish smile and swept Grey into his arms; the height difference was almost comical, except that he and Lady Grey sold the body language of unabashed passion as he moved her in a sensuous tango, legs crossing and entwining such that it was unbelievable they didn’t trip over each other. The Lady lip-synced a quip about making love on a mountain under the stars, and the dancer dipped her deeply, entreating her creamy decolletage to come away with him. Lady Grey swooned, but then lifted one foot from the floor, pointing her toe to exclaim, _“in these shoes? I don’t think so.”_   A tight spotlight made her foot glow like a stiletto-pointed star. Her dancer acted equal parts shocked and ravenous as he raised her from the dip and she turned her head to address the crowd. _“I said, honey, let’s do it here!”_   The horn section blared a staccato sting as Lady Grey clasped her young man and wrapped a leg around his waist, exposing the red garters again. They tangoed up to the table on the platform and he laid her down on it in a shower of cutlery and linens, leaning over in artful parody of intimacy as the platform revolved them around and out of sight.

Sherlock blew out a breath as Lady Grey slipped from his view. Seeing her moving so sensually and the peekaboo nature of her garments had the craving in his belly flaring almost to the point of discomfort; had he ever wanted someone the way he wanted John? The Lady was beautiful and alluring, but it was the man who brought her to life, who breathed fire into her from the inside; that was who made his groin tighten and his breathing pick up. He wanted to find someplace immediately where they could be alone to peel John out of his garters and heels and worship him for hours - no, for days; until they passed out from bliss. He crossed his legs the other way over, hoping his burgeoning erection was not too noticeable.

A group of dancers were tangoing to the music, synchronized and seductive in couples tightly pressed together, again wearing more overt bondage gear and linked by cording, chains or cuffs. Sherlock distracted himself for almost fifteen seconds noticing that some of the couples were same-sex; he had to give Irene credit for bucking the heteronormative assumption of man-woman (or man-woman-looking) dance partners. He nibbled at a knuckle and waited for whatever was coming next.  

The platform rotated around, bringing Lady Grey into view once more. She was perched on a stool at a bar, in a complete costume change: skin-tight red leather mini-dress with a corseted bustier covered in bright chrome zippers; long black opera gloves and black, thigh-high boots of some synthetic that mimicked wet latex. The boots again sported precariously high spiked heels, and this pair had platforms in the soles as well. If she had been holding Irene’s buggy whip she would have been the toast of any kink club in London. She shot a look over at Sherlock and her face broke into a knowing smirk. Sherlock realized his jaw had dropped and closed it, swallowing the saliva that had pooled in his mouth. This version of Lady Grey was completely entrancing and was sparking a deluge of thoughts, all of them featuring John in varying states of debauchery. He crouched low over his lap to hide what the seductive vision on the stage had done to his anatomy.

 _I was sitting in a bar in Guadalajara,_ Lady Grey crooned, as she was approached by another dancer, this one unexpectedly silver-haired and tanned, and likely older than John. He was ruggedly fit and clad in sleek motorcycle leathers that clung like a second skin - Sherlock immediately hated him. Again Lady Grey was raised from her seat and she and her partner glided around the stage in a full-contact tango that looked positively indecent. _“Climb on the back, I’ll take you for a ride,”_ the track said, as he danced her over to where the platform had rotated the bar away and revealed an honest-to-god chrome monster of a motorcycle, _“we can get there for the break of day.”_

Lady Grey languidly raised a wet-latex leg, all the way up to the motorcycle bloke’s shoulder as she drawled _“In these shoes? No way, José.”_   Sherlock was captivated; the standing split hiked the mini-dress up almost to her waist, revealing a pair of shimmery, lacy, silver knickers along with the scarlet garters from the last verse. The lighting over the stage made the Lady shine, a bright spot of color in the sea of black clothed dancers. Her dancer seemed to sag with lust as he dropped to the motorcycle seat, lips sliding up Lady Grey’s booted thigh toward the scanty knickers. If Sherlock had hated that dancer before, it was nothing to how he felt now.

Grey flung her leg back to the floor to address the crowd directly. _“I said, honey,”_   and here she swung her leg entirely over the dancer’s head, slotting down in front of him on the motorcycle and winding both legs up around his waist; he flashed the brightest of white, toothy, delighted grins - _“let’s stay right here.”_ She leaned back against the console of the motorcycle, languidly draping her arms along the handlebars as the dancer leaned in to mouth at her collarbones and the platform rotated them away. Sherlock resettled in his chair once more, and vowed to erase any and all traces of the silver-haired Lothario who dared put his lips on - even near - his lover’s skin, when he next had John in his bed. Which would need to be soon, or he might do himself an injury.

The ensemble swept in, dancing to the chorus; Sherlock absently noted a bit of Spanish in the last line - “it’s a scandal.” Certainly Lady Grey was scandalous tonight, her outfits and especially her dancing titillating him into a state of buzzing desperation. His arousal was an ache in his chest and his nethers, with no hope of reprieve for the time being. He swore that when he got John to himself, he would not let the man leave his bed for anything. A single night would not be enough to exhaust the amorous greed his lover had stirred in him with this piece of theater.

Lady Grey nonchalantly walked around from behind the platform in yet another costume change, this time into a deep red cocktail dress covered with glittering silver beadwork on the form-fitting bodice and tight sleeves, paired with a full, drapey, asymmetrical-line skirt of some diaphanous stuff that swung and flared with each step she took. On her feet were a pair of criss-crossing, thin-strapped, spike-heeled, peep-toe, rhinestone-encrusted platform sandals. The shoes were stunning, the outfit was stunning; Sherlock couldn’t look anywhere but at Lady Grey in her element. He hurriedly sat on his hands when he noticed he had been pressing the heel of his palm hard against his erection.

A third male dancer hustled onstage, as if he were rushing from place to place. He wore a buttoned-up brown tweed suit with a waistcoat and watch chain, and carried a tightly-furled umbrella in his hand. Sherlock choked a bit when he realized how much this dancer reminded him of his brother Mycroft; had John done this deliberately? It served to help him control his ardor, at least, so he would call it a result and be grateful (he coughed) for the help. Lady Grey shot him an utterly smug pout and he squirmed in his chair at the competing sensations of irritation and lust this picture had created. He had no doubt now John had done this for his benefit - and that John was enjoying his discomfiture, damn him.

Lady Grey drolly addressed the crowd: _“Then I met an Englishman/ Oh! he said...”_   the dancer seemed to double-take and stepped over to walk a circle around her, avidly observing her with desire written on his face. Sherlock begrudgingly gave the dancer credit - he was skilled at conveying his emotions clearly through body posture and facial expression, and what he was conveying was inappropriate in the extreme. He looked as though he wanted Lady Grey to devour him right there on the simulated street, on a stage in front of four hundred people. Sherlock couldn’t help but empathize.

The dancer took Grey’s wrist and lifted the scarlet-nailed hand to his lips; he and Lady Grey began to revolve around each other while the music vamped; stepping out to arm’s length and then tightening the distance between them until they were pressed together in a tight clinch. Abruptly the dancer dropped to one knee on the stage, umbrella cradled in the crook of his elbow, pleading as Lady Grey continued with the verse: _“Won’t you walk up and down my spine? It makes me feel strangely alive...”_

Grey turned her head to the audience: _“I said in these shoes?”_   and she placed a sparkling, deadly-looking stiletto heel onto the dancer’s bent leg. He mimicked a dizzy spell at the contact, and Sherlock felt unaccountably angry at the dancer for being so close to her, having her touch on him. Lady Grey - and John - were _his. A_  growl rumbled in his chest, inaudible over the blaring music. His crotch throbbed. He was walking the line of pain, his body so fervently keyed up by his lover’s performance. Only John could ever affect him like this; dear god, how he adored John.  

 _“I doubt you’d survive.”_   Lady Grey intoned with the track, and snaked a hand around the back of the dancer’s neck into the auburn waves at his nape. She turned her head to address the audience again while a few twangy guitar notes sounded, holding the tension until she snatched the umbrella from the dancer - _“I said honey...”_   and pushed him by the back of the neck onto his face at her feet. _“Let’s do it!”_   In perfect time with the blasts from the brass, Lady Grey planted the ferrule of the umbrella on the stage next to the prone form, and planted each foot in turn, on his back at chest and sacrum.

Sherlock’s vision whited out at the edges and he thought for a moment that he had climaxed in his trousers. Lady Grey was a picture of grace and control, proud and fierce as she stood on the body of the dancer and performed for the audience. It didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice that she was holding her weight all on her toes, her calves exquisitely flexed to avoid causing damage to her partner with the vicious spike heels as she undulated over him in the dance. After a saucy, _“Let’s stay right here,”_   she stepped down and was intercepted by the fellow from the first verse, who moved her around the stage in an even more salacious tango than before. Sherlock’s breath was coming in short gasps now, his eyes riveted to the shining queen in deadly shoes as she demonstrated her mastery of her craft.

Lady Grey was dancing through the refrain of the song now, passing from one to the next of her three principal dancers with smooth grace and blatant sexuality on display in her every move. Grey and her three partners, surrounded by the BDSM-flavored chorus pairs, sensually tangoed to the percussive samba music back and forth across the stage. As the song drew to a close, the Mycroft-dancer again was hurled to the floor on his face; Sherlock couldn’t restrain his satisfied smile at the sight. The silver-haired biker and the Westwood-suited fellow formed up behind him, each down on one knee with their bent legs together. Grey twirled around them, then as the final staccato music sting was sounding, sat down on their knees as though they were merely furniture, casually throwing an arm over the biker’s shoulder and stroking a hand along Westwood’s jawline. The chorus dancers had swirled into place at just the right moment to form a sort of peacock-tail made of bodies, arms and hands held wide, fanning out from behind Grey’s seated form on her own human throne. In perfect time with the music, she planted both shining feet on the Mycroft-dancer’s back while he jerked as if receiving an electric shock. The lights held them in frozen tableau for a long moment, then the stage went black.

Sherlock let out a breath he had been holding for far too long. He sucked in air as all around him the room erupted with whistles, cheers, and thunderous applause; the crowd had gone utterly wild for Lady Grey tonight. The lights came back up, and the performers for the first act of the show came out to take their bows. Lady Grey, striding effortlessly in her towering heels, acknowledged the standing ovation and shouts of approbation with her usual flair, waving into the crowd and puckering smooches at her especial favorites. After a moment, while she stepped forward with a murmured word to accept a bouquet from a stage hand by the footlights, she looked over at Sherlock to send him a lascivious wink and a blown, deep maroon-colored kiss. Sherlock mimed catching it and returned his own, entirely unselfconscious in this moment of connection with his lover, his amazement and admiration written plainly on his face. Dear god, how he adored John!

Sherlock jerked out of his reverie when the stagehand that had given Lady Grey her flowers snapped his fingers near Sherlock’s ear, holding out a note. “From the Lady, innit?” he said cheekily and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “Cor, but you’re a lucky man, Mister ‘Olmes.” Grinning widely, the stagehand briskly headed backstage as the house lights came up for intermission.

Sherlock fumbled for his glass as he sank back into his chair, and downed the last of the scotch. How had John contrived to slip the note to the stagehand without him noticing? The paper was faintly damp and when he sniffed it, he smelled the Lady’s perfume - but also John’s own sweat. His lover had carried this note, somehow, some _where_ in the scanty clothes and _two_ full costume changes, all so that a stagehand could deliver a bit of paper that John knew would drive him crazy. He grinned his delight and took a deep, calming breath which did next to nothing to slow his heart rate or lessen his arousal, but made him feel psychologically better. Then he opened the note.

 _Darling, I must meet the customers before I can leave the store, but you can shop with me if you like. A little more time in the Grey, then I am all yours._ The note again was sealed with a maroon kiss mark, this one somewhat smudged from its travels.

The noise of the crowd spiked over by the door leading from backstage to the house, whoops and applause ringing loud. Sherlock saw some of the performers trickling in for their chance to mingle with the guests, something Irene insisted upon every night. Irene herself, still in her spangly ringmaster’s get-up, was escorting Lady Grey in a straight line toward Sherlock’s table like it was her only mission in life to get them to each other as quickly as possible. Sherlock stood to receive them, suddenly breathless again as the Lady drew near.

When they arrived, Irene said somewhat sharply, “My dear Sherlock, I brought you a lovely tart for your dessert. I suspect it’s your favorite flavor.” She dropped Grey’s arm and with a falsely sweet smile exchanged Continental kisses with her headliner, muttering something in the Lady’s ear that made her giggle.

“Irene, my dear one, my honey pie, my little cabbage,” Lady Grey replied with an innocent smile, “how can I resist these sweets,” and she shot Sherlock a smoldering pout, “after weeks without? Now, you must admit that new song went well, even with the costume changes and the heels of death you insisted I try to stab Marco with by standing on him.” Grey’s mellow voice, so like and unlike John’s, made the words sound like music to Sherlock’s ears, and the hint of exasperation underneath the statement let him know that John was as anxious to move on to the reunion part of the evening as Sherlock himself was.

Sherlock stepped in before they could get their claws out and took Lady Grey’s hand. “Thank you, Irene,” he drawled, “I do indeed enjoy this tart more than any in the world, there is nothing anywhere to compare. Lady Grey, you are exquisite as always.” He held the Lady’s gaze as he lifted her hand to his mouth for a gentlemanly kiss, then turned it over to press a more lingering one against the pulse point in her wrist, tasting the salt of perspiration on the tip of his tongue. He savored the indrawn breath she gasped for him and hoped his erection was not too noticeable. Being this close to the Lady, to John, had a predictable, pavlovian effect on him. He relished the sweet almost-pain of it.

They held their locked gaze for a timeless moment, until Irene snorted and said, “you promised to make the rounds if I would move your song to the first act, so get to it. Meet and greet, you brilliant queen. And then take this one and go be disgustingly happy... somewhere else. The rest of us have to work another set tonight!” She nodded smartly and headed over to Miss Vicky, who was telling a highly inappropriate story to a cackling hen’s night group of women wearing dime-store tiaras.

Lady Grey reclaimed her hand long enough to tuck it into Sherlock’s elbow and they took a moment to lean together and breathe. In the tall heels she was wearing, she was much closer to his height. It was novel. “Hello,” she murmured in his ear. “You utter bastard, you look good enough to eat in that outfit.”

“Hello,” he countered, “You always look good enough to eat, though tonight you are especially delectable.” He turned his head to speak quietly and still be heard, purring into the shell of her ear, “I have been hard for you for _hours_.” He felt a shudder ripple up her spine and her grip tightened on his arm. Served her right for the torture, sublime though it may have been, that he had suffered all day. His expression as he straightened was serene; he did his best to appear entirely unruffled. “Shall we?”

Lady Grey’s eyes glittered; challenge accepted. “By all means, dear man.” She also seemed unaffected by their proximity, but Sherlock could tell it was a bluff by the force of her fingers digging into his bicep. He resolved to courteously accompany her to meet her fans. Not long now, and he’d have John all to himself.    

 ~~oOo~~

Lady Grey had done her rounds with her usual aplomb, charming the audience members with witty anecdotes and bright laughter. They left as the lights flashed for the second act, showgirls scurrying out the doors ahead of them. Sherlock and Lady Grey walked leisurely toward John’s dressing room, hoping to avoid the crush of performers as they rushed to the stage. When they entered the tiny space, sparkly costumes and sculpted wigs scattered about, Sherlock had expected to ravage John against the door as he had so many times before - had been looking forward to it, in fact.

Instead, he could only look at Grey, searching for those little glimmers of the man beneath that so fascinated him. The Lady had done her job driving him mad with lust; now he needed to see his love. He wanted to see _John,_ now.

They stared at each other for long moments, neither seeming able to break the stalemate. At last Sherlock said, “may I help you change?”

Grey’s eyes softened and something about her demeanor altered, becoming quieter, more focused. John looked out from under the Lady’s wig and paint. “Yes, please.” He took a few steps over to the sofa and elegantly folded himself onto it with a sigh. “These shoes are a killer after the first half hour on them.” He leaned down to begin removing one, but found the foot in question suddenly grasped in long-fingered hands and placed on Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock easily unzipped the shoe after a moment of scrutiny at the strapping and slid it off John’s foot. Red marks showed where the straps had rubbed, and John gasped with relief as his foot relaxed into a less contorted position. Sherlock knew John loved how heels made Lady Grey look and how they disguised the masculine size and shape of his feet, but they were not kind to those who wore them. He lightly massaged the foot under his hands, pressing his thumbs into the arch while John sucked a breath through his teeth.

“Christ, that feels good.”

Sherlock smiled, and moved his gentle massage to the muscle of John’s calf, which twitched at the contact. John groaned his approval, flexing the foot back and forth and rolling it at the ankle once Sherlock released it to give the same treatment to the other foot.

When that was done, he offered his hand to John to raise him from the sofa and lead him to the vanity. “The wig first, I presume?”

John snorted. “Last on, first off. Irene’s Rule Number One of wig care and feeding.” He reached up to pull a few cunningly hidden bobby pins from the blond mass, then caught Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror, offering a small nod. Sherlock lifted the wig from John’s head and stowed it carefully on the plastic head-shape on the side table. He turned back to see John wiping his face with makeup remover on a cloth, his flawless, smooth complexion dissolving into the familiar, weathered folds and texture of John Watson. Sherlock watched, engrossed as the queen receded and the man was revealed.

When John finished, he turned and stood, facing Sherlock with flat feet and fresh skin, still in his glamorous sparkling gown. He tilted his head inquiringly as Sherlock stared silently at him. “What?” he asked.

Sherlock merely smiled and stepped forward to reach behind John for the zipper on the gown. The pseudo-embrace allowed him to breathe John in: perfume and sweat and makeup remover. He heard John inhaling deeply near his neck and releasing on a long sigh. “I missed you,” John whispered.

Sherlock stepped back a pace, the gown held reverently in his hands so John could step out of it. Beneath, John wore the scarlet garters, black silk stockings and a shaping garment to sculpt his waist a bit - and the silver knickers. It was clear that John had not been unaffected by their proximity tonight, his tumescent prick pressed to one side and escaping from the dance cup beneath the underwear. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“All of it,” Sherlock rasped. “Just you, John. The Lady has had her way with me all evening. Now I want you.” He stepped back to give John space to change into his street clothes, though his gaze never left his lover’s form. He chuckled when John slipped the cup from the knickers and dropped it on the dressing table, then left the silver panties in place with a cheeky smirk.

When John was dressed in trousers and a buttoned shirt, scuffed brown brogues on his feet, utterly unlike the shimmering creature that had accompanied Sherlock into the room, he stepped close and wrapped strong arms around his lover’s waist. Sherlock’s own arms came up around John instinctively, and they stood together, just breathing while a tension that neither had been entirely aware of leaked away with the contact. At last, John leaned up to whisper, “take me home, Sherlock.”

~~oOo~~

 _“John,”_   Sherlock gasped, his head thrown back against the pillow, “John!” It seemed the only word he knew anymore, as his lover skillfully brought him to the edge of orgasm, then backed away only to start again. John’s grey-blond head moved between Sherlock’s legs, twisting and pulling with heat and perfect suction, then breaking for lapping licks and teasing swirls of his nimble tongue. One strong hand pressed Sherlock’s long leg toward his chest, gently rubbing at the tendons behind his knee; the other stroked him inside, two fingers scissoring and stretching, passing gently over his prostate with deliberate precision.     

John pulled off Sherlock’s cock with an unselfconscious slurp. “I think you’re ready, then, yeah?” His torturous fingers slipped out of Sherlock, leaving him empty and frantic for release.

“John,” he whimpered, “please!”

John wasted no time, rolling on the condom he had placed close to hand, and giving his prick a swift coating of lube, hissing at the stimulation. He lined himself up and waited, again pressing Sherlock’s leg toward his chest. And waited.

Waited until Sherlock roused himself enough to open his eyes, about to impatiently demand his lover get on with it; then nudged just the tip of his penis into Sherlock’s body. The expression on John’s face arrested Sherlock’s testy words, eyes widening as the serenity and adoration on his partner’s face registered. “...John?” he whispered.

“Watch me,” John said, and pressed forward, pushing into Sherlock’s loosened passage. “Don’t close your eyes.” He paused, allowing them time to acclimate to the fullness, the tightness of their connection. “See me, Sherlock. Nobody sees me like you do.” His hips came to rest against Sherlock’s buttocks, fully seated. Again he paused so they could adjust, ever the gentleman.

When Sherlock nodded, John began to move. Slowly, smoothly, eyes fixed on his lover’s face for any sign of discomfort, he pulled back until he was at risk of popping free, then pressed in again, slowly, inexorably filling the place he had made for himself inside Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s gaze stayed riveted to the man above him, his nerves alight with the sensation of John on him, in him, all around him. On the next pass, John skimmed over his prostate and he gasped as sparks shot up his spine.

He wanted John to go faster, harder, and yet the heavy-lidded worship in those dark blue eyes and the reverence in John’s movements caught him and dragged him under, into the slow, sensual undulations of their lovemaking. His heart felt full, as full as his body, full of John in all the cracks and crevices that had only let in the cold before this complicated, fascinating man came to occupy them. His throat tightened and he struggled to keep his eyes open against the need to hide.

“John, I...” he pulled John down to him for a sweet kiss, trying to convey what was overflowing in him at that moment. “John...”

John’s face crinkled with his smile. “I know, love. I know.” His rhythm never faltered, relentlessly driving them both higher, ratcheting their gratification up and up toward climax. John bent down and kissed Sherlock again, invading his mouth, laying claim to him utterly. He accelerated his pace, angling to brush against Sherlock’s prostate with each thrust, the gusts of his huffed breaths tickling against delicate skin under Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock abruptly achieved the cusp of orgasm, and it was exquisite agony. He had been aroused over and over again all evening, and John’s languid, take-his-time lovemaking had only pulled the tension tighter; his body was taut, vibrating like a bowstring about to snap. “John!” he shouted, “I’m!” and the rest of his words were lost in the roaring in his ears as his whole consciousness seemed to drill down into his core, his head arched back, mouth open, rippling contractions of potent pleasure rolling outward from his belly all the way to his fingers and toes.

“Yes, oh god yes!” John’s hips snapped doubletime, suddenly pistoning into Sherlock powerfully. His face screwed up into a grimace as he chased his own peak, then sagged in relief as he came in several lusty pulses, gasping Sherlock’s name and collapsing down onto his lover, still careful to list enough to one side that he didn’t compress Sherlock’s chest too heavily. He smeared kisses along any patch of skin that was closest, murmuring endearments in a worshipful stream. “...you beautiful thing... love you so much... missed you. Missed this... brilliant... love you. Only you... no one ever like you...”

Sherlock came back to himself after a long moment, tuning into the sound of John’s voice and the weight and warmth of John against his chest. He couldn’t remember when he’d ever climaxed so hard - which was saying something given the caliber of his lover. Tonight had been truly spectacular.

What was different this time? He and John were versatile, giving and receiving as the whim took them, or skipping penetration altogether in favor of other pleasures. There had certainly been other times when he lay utterly spent, wrung out with pleasure and the contentment of John’s presence beside him, but something about this moment felt different. Significant. He didn’t entirely understand it, but before he could drop back into his mind to analyse, the words John were saying registered. John frequently told Sherlock he loved him, used the endearment ‘love’ with fair regularity, made wry comments referring to ‘his love’ in conversation with others. It seemed to roll off his tongue so easily.

Sherlock had said it before as well, with the proper gravitas so important a truth demanded; feelings were not his area, so admitting to such a one as love was something he had to work up to. At the moment however, his chest felt so full that something must be done to relieve the pressure. He took a deep breath. “John,” he rumbled, his voice cracking a bit, “John-”

John raised his head inquiringly, monologue cut off mid-word. “Alright, then?” Deep blue eyes regarded him solemnly.

“John,” Sherlock tried again, but the words got stuck in his throat. He pulled John back on top of him, wrapping arms tightly around his lean chest, splaying big hands across John’s shoulder blades and lumbar spine. The weight pressing on him felt grounding, and it had the added benefit of hiding his face while he spoke. “I love you too. You are extraordinary. When I was away, there was a space beside me that you belonged in that was empty, and I hated it. I never want it to be empty again.” He sucked in a breath, squeezed John to him even more tightly. “But tonight I’ve realized how unbelievably lucky I am that you love me, too. You, who everyone loves, everyone admires you, wants you - you say you love me like it’s the easiest thing in the world, when it is absolutely the most unlikely thing ever to happen to me. No one has ever made me feel the way you do, and I am yours for as long as you’ll have me, John.”

The torrent of words halted and Sherlock lay there, panting like he had been sprinting after a murder suspect. He felt lighter, somehow. John lay still on his chest, breathing slow and deep, the fingers of one hand finding their way up into Sherlock’s curls to stroke through them in the way John knew made him purr like a great cat. John raised his head and Sherlock was faintly worried to see the liquid fullness of John’s cobalt eyes until he registered the watery smile that accompanied it, just before John leaned down and kissed him gently, sweetly, with much rubbing of noses and latches of lips and fingers stroking jawlines.

When at last they pulled back enough to look each other in the eye again, John was grinning broadly, such happiness in his expression that Sherlock couldn’t help but smile in return. “I’m yours too, you know,” John said matter-of-factly. “I’ve never known someone who wants all of me, with my scars and my faults and my...” he quirked an eyebrow, “unusual career. You see it all, and none of it fazes you in the slightest. I’m lucky, too.”

They fell silent and basked in the lassitude of the afterglow and their understanding of each other. There may have been purring, and eventually there was sleep.

~~oOo~~

The next morning, as soon as John opened his eyes, he saw Sherlock leaning over him. “There’s a second bedroom upstairs that would make a good boudoir for Lady Grey,” he said casually, “if you and she might want to move in? Although, I’m afraid you’d have me as a flatmate...”   

John hit him with a pillow. Then kissed him for a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for the Shoes:  
> [Verse 1, with the Westwood fellow](https://www.sinfulshoes.com/96468-4-Heel-Criss-Cross-Pump-CUTIEPIE-09)  
> [Verse 2, with silver-haired biker guy](http://www.yandy.com/Killer-Instinct-Wet-Look-Stretch-Boot.php)  
> [Finale, with *cough* Mycroft *cough*](https://www.sinfulshoes.com/5-mini-stiletto-heel-ES532-JULIA)
> 
> If you'd like to hear the tunes:  
> The opening, with the animal dancers including Fox John: [When I Get Low, I Get High by the Speakeasy Sisters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=acb-js00c40)  
> The zipper top hat one... [Putting On the Ritz, by Robbie Williams (Swings Both Ways)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgyvhifIhiA)  
> And I almost wrote Miss Vicky her own solo for this because it's AWESOME: [Amazing by Hi Fashion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkW5IGBEfwY)
> 
> And one more thanks to Lymphadei for being so gracious! I hope I did your characters justice.


End file.
